


Easy to Please but Hard to Impress

by thought



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6190918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They defeat Samaritan Thursday morning, which leaves them with the entire afternoon to figure out what the fuck they're supposed to do once you've saved the world. So that's. Great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy to Please but Hard to Impress

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to [SpicyCheese](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/spicycheese) for the quick beta and for providing fabulous feedback. All remaining mistakes are entirely my own. The title is from [Warsaw](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RWYpGCNUkis).

They defeat Samaritan on a Thursday. Shaw accompanies Finch and Control to the Pentagon, where they can watch the NSA feeds cut off from Samaritan and the shell that remains of Decima in person. John's taking Fusco and Harper to shut down the servers until the government can decide what to do with Samaritan, but the boxes of C4 in the back of Reese's car make Shaw think there's gonna be an accident at the server farm. Finch will be morally distraught; Control practically so. Shaw hopes Reese takes video.

She doesn't see Root until after it's all over. They meet up in the courtyard outside their hotel, the whole fucking gang straggling across sun-hot cobblestone, disparate and tired and lagging behind the reality of their victory. Root's perched on the edge of a fountain with her nerd trio around her. They're all dressed to the nines. Root is the only one who's smiling, but her smile is goddamn radiant. Daizo looks kind of like he's about to cry, and Daniel's expression is one she saw in the mirror and the passenger seat her first three months working with the ISA. She's got a pretty good idea what they were doing, and she thinks it was shitty of Root to make murderers out of these men who barely wanted to be soldiers.

She's not sure why they're dressed up, though. Root's the only one of them who doesn't look tired. Even sitting she's practically vibrating with manic energy, hands dancing as she talks too fast; channel surfing through personalities, adopting and discarding mannerisms and expressions like she can't slow down long enough to find her own. She's clearly taken extra time crafting her appearance for the day, and Shaw runs an appreciative gaze or two or three over her. Her boots are polished black leather, silver buckles large and gleaming to match the silver buttons on the red wine velvet jacket over crisp black pants and a silky black shirt, buttons undone just enough to flash the vulnerable white of her throat. She looks good and she knows it, if the way she preens under Shaw's gaze is anything to go by.

"Hi sweetie."

Shaw steps closer, Greenfield shifting aside to make room for her.

"So..." Shaw draws out the o but Root just stares back. "You guys have a good morning?"

"Absolutely," Root says, at the same time Greenfield says,

"I can't do this."

He walks away, fast, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his suit coat. Someone (probably Zoe) has brought a bottle of expensive Champaign, and behind Shaw the cork pops, sudden and distinctive. Shaw's heartrate ratchets up, but she stays perfectly still.

"How's Control?" Root asks, all false sincerity.

"On heart medication," Shaw says, and she doesn't miss the vindictive little gleam in Root's eyes. "Probably getting promoted. Or fired."

"Couldn't have happened to a nicer person."

Finch comes up on her right and presses a paper cup of Champaign into her hand. Shaw takes a healthy gulp and goes to hop up on the ledge beside Root. She keeps a few inches between them, but she hopes Root will close the gap. She doesn't.

"Ms. Groves," he says, warmly. "I trust delivering Mr. Greer and Mr. Lambert to our friend at Interpol went smoothly."

"They're taken care of," Root says cheerfully.

"Go team," Daniel mutters. Harold frowns.

"I--"

Root holds up a quelling hand. "Drink your Champaign, Harry."

"Like Samaritan's servers were taken care of?" Zoe asks, coming up beside Harold. Harper mouths "oops" from a few feet away where she and Reese are sitting in the grass passing a bottle back and forth. Fusco seems frozen on the verge of a disapproving dad stare.

"This means I'm your favourite by default now," Shaw says.

"I'm under no illusions that you were unaware of these plans," Finch retorts stiffly.

Root beams over at Shaw. "Don't worry, Sam, you'll always be my favourite."

"Liar," Shaw says lightly.

Daizo coughs uncomfortably. "They're having a bit of a domestic," he says.

"Like father like daughter?" Shaw asks dryly.

"We're _fine_ ," Root says. "She'll come around. Or I will, which will be fun."

For values of fun, Shaw thinks, that include either 'feelings are awful and I hate them' or 'feelings are awful and I hate myself'. The Machine had better get her fucking act together.

"It's ok," says Shaw, magnanimously. "You're my second favourite too." Leon has been texting her pictures of Bear all morning and it's probably the only reason some of the NSA assholes are still breathing.

Root's smile gets impossibly wider, eyes scrunching up a bit. She's giving Shaw one of those adoring, 'I don't care if it's creepy' stares, like Shaw's the best thing that's ever happened to her. It makes Shaw itchy, but she looks back. Root is performing to be seen, and Shaw finds it now second nature to accommodate the small indulgences.

"So what happens now?" Daniel asks, pretty obviously trying to bulldoze past the awkwardness of Finch's disapproval and Root's crush.

"We have a great deal of work yet to do if The Machine is going to start sending us numbers again," Finch says.

"Assuming that's what she wants to do," Root says casually. Finch's entire face twitches, it's sort of horrifying.

"Please don't," Daniel says to the universe in general.

Root ignores him. She turns toward Finch, hands bracing on the wall beside her hips like she's ready to jump off. "We do plan to give her the same choices that any sentient autonomous being is offered, don't we Harold?"

Shaw does not make a comment about privilege. It's very hard.

"When the function of said being is built into its base code, I hardly see how the question of choice is even relevant."

"And we're leaving," Shaw says, because if Root doesn't punch him she just might. Zoe carefully steers Finch away to where Reese and Harper are determinedly working their way towards public intoxication and regret. Shaw finishes her Champaign as consolation for picking the wrong conversational circle.

"We'll see you back in New York," Zoe says. Apparently they're leaving. Or Root and Shaw are. Shaw frowns at her back in consternation.

"Road trip," Root whispers.

Daniel raises a finger. "Remember Mexico?"

Root sighs. "Ok, yes, you're exempt."

"I guarantee Finch and Zoe are flying," Shaw says, a little petulant.

Root waves a dismissive hand. "That's because they're enablers of the consumerism generated by the capitalist neoliberal institution, sweetie. They can't help it."

"Get away from me," Daniel says. Root sticks her tongue out.

Shaw decides to disregard the last fifteen seconds of her life. She slides her hand carefully across the rough concrete of the ledge until she brushes Root's hand. Cautiously she links their pinkies. "Or," she says, low and deliberate. "We could book our room for another night, and you could buy me lunch. And then... I'm sure we can find ways to celebrate preventing the AI apocalypse."

Root twists around fully to face her, and when the wind blows her hair back Shaw notices she's actually using her sound processor. Shaw knows she doesn't like to, usually-- maybe doesn't like the distortion, probably doesn't like having anything to distract her from The Machine's babble.

"I do like a good celebration." Shaw thinks it's a marvel that Root has made it to thirty-seven-years-old believing she can wink properly.

Shaw glances around. Finch and John are having a very quiet very heated argument. Harper and Zoe and Fusco have wandered off a little ways under the pretence of examining a statue. Daizo... looks like he's going into shock, actually. For fuck's sake. Shaw stares pointedly between Root and Daniel, waiting for one of them to notice. Root cocks her head, looks over at Daizo, back at Shaw. Yeah, she's going to be no help. Daniel at least has the decency to go pat him awkwardly on the shoulder, which is really about as good as Shaw could offer outside of treating any physical symptoms.

"Come on," she says to Root. "I was serious about lunch."

"I know." She slides down off the ledge and doesn't even pretend not to watch when Shaw has to let herself fall a bit to touch the ground.

They leave without saying goodbye. Not like they won't all be seeing each other back in the city. Root actually goes into the hotel to book their room instead of having The Machine change it in the system. Shaw really hopes they can work their shit out on their own. She waits outside and looks up steakhouses on her phone. There's a security camera watching the doors, and she stares right into it just because she can. Maybe The Machine's watching, maybe an unnerved security guard, but she knows for the first time in two years that it's safe to show her face where ever she wants.

At the restaurant Shaw eats a massive steak and a mountain of roasted vegetables and drinks a very expensive glass of red wine. Root flirts with the waitress and pokes unenthusiastically at a bowl of soup and drinks the remainder of the bottle. It calms her down, at least. There's a mirror along the wall to their right, and Root keeps glancing over at it, clearly pleased by the picture they make. Halfway through the meal Root's booted foot nudges at Shaw's under the table, and Shaw bumps her ankle against Root's.

"I hope you don't want dessert," Root says lowly once the waitress has taken their dishes. She's focused in on Shaw increasingly over the hour, and by now she's got her ankle hooked around Shaw's, casually possessive. Shaw pretends to ponder it, waiting until she can see the impatience on Root's face before shaking her head.

"I assume you've got a better offer."

Root's tongue flicks out to wet her lips, and she catches and holds Shaw's eyes across the table. "Absolutely," she murmurs. Shaw signals for the cheque.

Root walks fast on the way back to the hotel. Shaw has to jog to keep up, but Root doesn't slow her pace. She keeps glancing back at Shaw on the busy sidewalk contemplatively, and Shaw realizes Root hasn't so much mellowed out as she has focused all her energy at one point. Shaw can already feel her skin getting hot. The wind has picked up, and by the time they get inside the lobby Root's exposed skin has pinkened delicately and her hair is a tangled mess. It makes Shaw think of other instances when she's looked like this.

"What did that button ever do to you?" Root asks while they wait at the elevator bank.

No one else is around, so Shaw looks straight at Root and says "I'm pretty eager to fuck you, what can I say?"

Root reaches out, finally, to cup Shaw's cheek. "Me too, sweetie," she says earnest and fucking delighted and deliberately ignoring Shaw's phrasing. Sometimes Root can get downright ridiculous with her verbal foreplay and tiny power plays, but today she's either feeling too affectionate or too confident to get pulled in. Shaw doesn't know what's worse-- if Root won't play because she so overcome with mushy feelings bullshit or because she thinks she's above that sort of shit. She still leans into Root's hand until the elevator comes.

They pass Greenfield on their way to the room. He doesn't acknowledge them. Root pauses to watch him until he gets on the elevator, and there's a long fifteen seconds where she just stares at the back of his head and he pretends he's alone in the hallway.

"Great," Root says, dryly, as she unlocks the door. "Great. Ok. That's... awesome." Shaw's about to say something (she's not sure what, honestly) but Root keeps talking as they enter their hotel room. "Yes. Yes, maybe it is. We all know I poison everything I touch, isn't that right? If you want someone to validate your moralizing about healthy relationships you should go talk to Harold-- oh wait."

"Wow," says Shaw. "This is really turning me on, I can't even contain myself."

Root rocks forward on her heels towards the bed like she's going to throw herself down, then back, half-turns towards Shaw, gets caught on the cusp of indecision, contradicting options rendering her briefly immobile. Shaw steps in, wraps her hands loosely around Root's upper arms and moves them both to the bed. They wriggle around until they're lying side by side, shoulders pressed together. Root kicks her leather jacket off the end of the bed with one foot and Shaw glares.

"You're picking that up."

"That is a pretty safe hypothesis, yes." Shaw doesn't even have to look at her to know she's smirking.

"You wanna fuck?" Shaw asks, instead of the automatic griping about Root's lack of organizational skills. It's slightly less satisfying when Shaw remembers Root had probably never had an adult tell her to tidy her things or instill the habit of picking up after herself.

"Mmm, yes," Root says, rolling onto her side. She studies Shaw for a long moment, and Shaw has to fight the urge to pull away. "I didn't bring much with me, so we might have to improvise. But maybe we start with something simple." She moves quickly, swings a leg over Shaw so she's straddling her, letting her weight rest fully on her hips. She grins down at Shaw, and when she leans down a beam of sunlight spills over her hair, mahogany gold waves like something polished and expensive.

Shaw has to swallow hard, something caught low in her chest fighting to get out. "You're really pretty," she says, wincing even as the words stumble past her lips.

Root freezes for a second, ghosts fingers across Shaw's collarbone. Shaw knows it's equivalent to complimenting Root on a painting or a piece of code, but maybe that's what Shaw means, anyway.

The moment passes, and Shaw is grateful. Root slides down her body, all uncoordinated too-long limbs until she's crouched on the end of the bed, pulling at the laces on Shaw's boots. "Hands on the headboard, sweetie," she says, almost absently. Shaw rolls her eyes, but obeys. Root takes her time getting her boots off, followed by her pants and underwear, and Shaw fucking knows she's just tossing them where ever they happen to land. Once that's done she comes up along the side of the bed so she can unbutton Shaw's shirt, leaving it to fall open, scratching her nails down Shaw's stomach hard as she steps away. She takes off her own boots, tosses the two knives she'd had concealed in her clothes onto the dresser, followed by the external components of her implant.

"Ok!" she says under her breath, bouncing a little when she hops back on the bed. She spends a while using her nails to draw patterns over Shaw's hips and thighs, interspersed with sharp little pinches that make Shaw's breath catch. Shaw can feel her nipples hardening under her sports bra, knows she's getting wet enough that Root has to have noticed. Her skin is hyper-sensitive everywhere Root's touched, pinpricks of sensation focusing her to be aware of every part of her body like the inverse of a relaxation exercise. The tails of her shirt brush her sides and she feels framed, on display for Root's patient gaze.

"Root," she says, finally. "Come on."

"Ok," Root says, and slides the pad of one finger light over Shaw's clit. Shaw's entire body jerks, not prepared for the instant response. Root looks pleased. She does it again, still maddeningly light. Shaw pushes up, trying to get more pressure, but root pulls back, waits until she's settled back down before she continues touching her. The sleeve of her jacket brushes Shaw's inner thigh with every moment.

"Good things come to those who wait," Root chirps wickedly.

Shaw glares. "As long as they come eventually."

Root tips her chin down, slides a finger knuckle deep into Shaw in one deliberate motion. "Really?" she asks. "I don't know if that's entirely accurate." she slides out, then back in again. "I think I could keep you on the edge all evening and if I decided that you don't get to come after all, you'd accept that." She presses her thumb against Shaw's clit and looks up the bed to make eye contact. "Wouldn't you?"

Shaw can't look away, feels Root's gaze like she feels her hands, holding her still and in place and _seen_. She breathes out, feels the blood rushing to her head. "Yeah," she says, and means it.


End file.
